


Skin Deep

by FateReplay



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: High School, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Prompto is sad emo boy, Self-Harm, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 18:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14384409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FateReplay/pseuds/FateReplay
Summary: Prompto feels a spark ricochet off where Noctis’s pinky finger meets the bare flesh by his wristband, and for a brief, crazy moment he wonders if Noctis felt not only the prison bars branded onto his wrist, but the many scars he’s spent years carefully etching onto the canvas of his skin.





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! So this is my first work on here. I had an idea and just ran with it. I'm a bit rusty when it comes to fic so please be gentle, but honestly I'd appreciate any feedback. High school Promptis are too cute, uwu.

His fingers brush Prompto’s wrist once, innocently, right after class. Noctis is simply moving past him, toward the cafeteria or the nearby Kenny Crow's, or wherever people go when they have friends. Prompto feels a spark ricochet off where Noctis’s pinky finger meets the bare flesh by his wristband, and for a brief, crazy moment he wonders if Noctis felt not only the prison bars branded onto his wrist, but the many scars he’s spent years carefully etching onto the canvas of his skin.

 Prompto opens his mouth to speak—

“Sorry,” Noctis says.

For the rest of the day, Prompto thinks about that “sorry.” About the way Noctis’s eyes slid over him, like he wasn’t there. That night, curled up in his uncomfortable bed, he stares at his wrist, his eyes eventually adjusting to the dark so he can see the barcode covered in an intricate web of tiny incisions. He has the sudden urge to scratch at them, but tucks his other hand under his head. He wishes he could fall asleep.

 

The next day he tries not to stare at Noctis. This is tough—he’s the young Prince, after all, and everyone stares. Prompto was always born a follower. Worse, Noctis’s desk is diagonally across from him, so that every time he smiles a little, or brushes a strand of long hair away from his face, Prompto’s heart pounds against his ribcage. Sometimes he wishes he could pull his camera out from his backpack, snap a photo to keep forever.

He does somewhat succeed in ignoring Noctis, keeping his head down almost the entire day, studiously taking notes. His fingers prickle, restless and electric, and he fights the impulse to escape into the Boys’ bathroom.

His plan crumbles pathetically, however, when he feels someone tap the edge of his wrist. He almost jumps out of his skin, and looks up to meet Noctis’ nighttime eyes.

“Uh… Yes?”

Noctis slides a worksheet onto his desk. “Sorry,” he says, and Prompto thinks, _is that all he knows how to say_?

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Noctis continues. His voice is husky and soft. Prompto remembers when Noctis’s voice was lighter, high-pitched. He’s ashamed of the memory, as if it’s some dark secret that would disgust anyone who knew.

“Don’t worry,” Prompto answers, realizing he’s just been staring at the other boy’s face. Noctis nods at him, and there’s a small smile there. Suddenly, Prompto wants to cry. The lunch bell rings overhead.

He stays in his seat long enough to wait for Noctis’s many friends to surround him, before getting to his feet and half-jogging half-sprinting to the bathroom. He can’t breathe. He checks to make sure all the stalls are empty, before choosing the handicap stall and locking the lime green door behind him. He slides the pencil sharpener out from his back pocket, then removes his wristband and places it on the floor.

He feels like he’s watching himself from the ceiling. He floats there as the blond boy sits on the bathroom tile, hands shaking. The small razor pops out of position, and he sits there for a few seconds, the tip of the metal resting coolly on his skin. It feels like he’s drowning. He presses the blade into his skin, and a bead of velvety-red liquid rushes to the surface. He gasps for air. 

He’s back in his own body, and he’s crying. He slides the blade downward, and the pain is more intense than usual. He realizes he’s re-opened a wound from a few days ago. The razor slips from his fingers, and he wraps his uninjured hand around his bloodied wrist. He knows he should stop the bleeding, press some paper towels against the new cut, but he can’t seem to make himself move.

The stall door rattles. Prompto gasps. Could it have been the wind? But the door rattles again, and then Prince Noctis’s voice floats over the door.

“Hey? Prompto, is that you?”

Prompto bites his lip, hard. He has never heard Noctis say his name.

The voice returns, this time even quieter. “Listen, I know you’re in there. Could you open the door?”

Prompto opens his mouth, finds his voice. “I… I can’t.” His throat feels raw.

Noctis’s footsteps seem to recede. Prompto is overcome with new grief, until he feels the heel of Noctis’s shoe brush against his leg.

“I’m coming in.” Noctis is on his hands and knees, sliding himself into the stall from under the door. Prompto doesn’t move, even as Noctis pulls himself up and surveys the situation. Prompto expects the Prince’s face to twist into horror or shock, but Noctis just blinks.

“We should stop the bleeding.”

Prompto watches, this time through his own eyes, as Noctis opens the stall from the inside. He hears him retrieving paper towels, the sound of the faucet turning on and off. Noctis returns with the wet paper towels and kneels in front of him. He gestures at Prompto to give him his arm.

Suddenly, Prompto remembers his barcode, obscured by the dark blood. He sucks in a breath. “Wait,” he says. Noctis’s hands freeze.

He exhales, and then reaches for the paper towel. “Let me do it myself.”

Noctis nods. His eyes move to the bathroom floor. “Need me to help clean up?”

Prompto shakes his head slowly. “No, I got it.” His eyes meet Noctis’s, briefly, but he looks away before Noctis can see what’s there. “Thank you.”

It takes only a few minutes to clean up. Prompto folds the paper towel into a small square, using his wristband to secure it in place. He gets another one to mop up the small pool on the floor. Noctis waits outside the stall—Prompto can hear him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’s nervous after all, reasonably.

When the two of them exit the bathroom together, it seems like Noctis wants so say something. He mumbles incoherently and bites his lips, glancing at Prompto then away.

Prompto’s heart is racing. He’s afraid Noctis hates him, is inconvenienced, that the Prince has better things to worry about. He’s about to tell him to just forget about it, it’s no big deal, when Noctis speaks.

“It must be hard.”

Prompto stops in his tracks. “What?”

Noctis turns to look at him. His eyes look sad. “Just. It must be hard, if you’re…hurting yourself.”

Prompto swallows. There’s a lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he says finally.

Noctis looks down at his feet, kicking up nonexistent dust. The silence stretches out, almost a little too long.

“Hey.”

Prompto braces himself for more questions. Why does he do it? (He doesn’t know.) Does he like the pain? (He doesn’t know). Did he keep the razor? (He threw it away. He always does.)

“Did you wanna walk home with me today?”

Prompto blanches. “Is that allowed?”

Noctis laughs. It sounds like the wind. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Prompto scratches the back of his head. He wants to say no. He doesn’t want to be Noctis’s pity friend. He doesn’t want Noctis to associate with a loser. Noctis deserves better.

He’s made up his mind.

“You like photography, right?”

Or not.

Noctis chuckles at Prompto’s expression. “Don’t look so surprised. I always see you with your camera.” He pauses. “I like photographs. There are things I want to remember. Do you think you could help me?”

Prompto cries for the second time that day.

 


End file.
